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  •  "Cutting The Land Into Large Chunks Of Rust" (6+ / 0-)

    Justice Putnam Self-Portrait / copyright Justice Putnam

    The Justice Department is on Netroots Sundays 8pm to 9pm Pacific and Mondays 9pm to Midnight Pacific. Powered by Unity Radio Net!

    I'm Special Agent DJ Justice; Radio Host and Program Director for Netroots; and I'm manning the dials, spinning the discs, warbling the woofers, putting a slip in your hip and a trip to your hop.

    The playlist for Monday 28 April 14 9pm to Midnight Pacific Edition of The Justice Department: Musique sans Frontieres

     ~~ "Cutting The Land Into Large Chunks Of Rust" ~~

    1 - Blood Sweat & Tears  -- "John The Baptist"
    2 - Traffic -- "Forty Thousand Headmen"
    3 - Jethro Tull -- "A New Day Yesterday"
    4 - Procol Harum -- "Homburg"
    5 - Moody Blues -- "Gypsy"
    6 - King Crimson -- "In The Court Of The Crimson King"

    Station Break

    7 - The Clash -- "Charlie Don't Surf"
    8 - Mono Men -- "Daylight"
    9 - The Mercury Program -- "Tequesta"
    10 - The Lipstick Killers -- "Hindu Gods Of Love"
    11 - Daikaiju -- "The Trouble With Those Mothra Girls"
    12 - 7 Negro -- "Surf & Roll"
    13 - Los Straitjackets -- "Pacifica"
    14 - The Bikini Lovers -- "No No No"

    Station Break

    15 - Hector Zazou -- "Que le Bongo est Beau"
    16 - Karsh Kale -- "Milan"
    17 - Kabul Work Shop -- "Trigana"
    18 - Garanda -- "Sunda Javanese Gamelan"

    Station Break

    19 - The Cinematic Orchestra -- "Burn Out"
    20 - Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra -- "El Machete"
    21 - Temple of Sound -- "iZulu Li Ya Duma"
    22 - Niyaz -- "Dilruba"

    Station Break

    23 - Otros Aires -- "Allerdings Otros Aires"
    24 - Der Dritte Raum -- "Blautaut"
    25 - Metropolitan Jazz Affair -- "Fourmi Rouge"
    26 - Thomas Siffling Trio -- "Jazz Is Like Ginger"
    27 - Chris Botti -- "La Belle Dame sans Regrets"
    28 - Coralie Clément -- "Le Jazz et Le Gin"

    Station Break

    29 - Jazzanova -- "The Morning Side Of Love"
    30 - Lyczacza -- "La La Love"
    31 - Stacy Kent -- "Samba Saravah"
    32 - Club Des Belugas -- "Get Shorter"
    33 - De Phazz -- "Cut The Jazz"
    34 - Emilie Simon -- "Dernier Lit"
    35 - Yael Naim -- "Paris"

    Who luvs ya, baby?

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                                                 woven plaque basket with sunflower design, Hopi,
                                                 Arizona, before 1935

                                                 from an American Indian basketry exhibit in
                                                 Portsmouth, Virginia

    The Arizona highway sailed across the desert—
         a gray battleship drawing a black wake,
                halting at the foot of the orange mesa,
                      unwilling to go around.

    Hopi men and women—brown, and small, and claylike
          —peered down from their tabletops at yellow tractors, water trucks,
                and white men blistered with sun—red as fire ants—towing
                      sunscreen-slathered wives in glinting Airstream trailers
                             in caravans behind them.

    Elders knew these BIA roads were bad medicine—knew too
         that young men listen less and less, and these young Hopi men
               needed work, hence set aside their tools, blocks of cottonwood root
                     and half-finished Koshari the clown katsinas, then
                            signed on with the Department of Transportation,

    were hired to stab drills deep into the earth’s thick red flesh
         on First Mesa, drive giant sparking blades across the mesas’ faces,
               run the drill bits so deep they smoked, bearding all the Hopi men
                     in white—Bad spirits, said the Elders—

    The blades caught fire, burned out—Ma’saw is angry, the Elders said.
         New blades were flown in by helicopter. While Elders dreamed
                their arms and legs had been cleaved off and their torsos were flung
                      over the edge of a dinner table, the young Hopi men went
                             back to work cutting the land into large chunks of rust.

    Nobody noticed at first—not the white workers,
         not the Indian workers—but in the mounds of dismantled mesa,
               among the clods and piles of sand,
                     lay the small gray bowls of babies’ skulls.

    Not until they climbed to the bottom did they see
         the silvered bones glinting from the freshly sliced dirt-and-rock wall—
               a mausoleum mosaic, a sick tapestry: the tiny remains
                     roused from death’s dusty cradle, cut in half, cracked,
                            wrapped in time-tattered scraps of blankets.

    Let’s call it a day, the white foreman said.
         That night, all the Indian workers got sad-drunk—got sick
              —while Elders sank to their kivas in prayer. Next morning,
                    as dawn festered on the horizon, state workers scaled the mesas,
                            knocked at the doors of pueblos that had them, hollered
                                   into those without them,

    demanding the Hopi men come back to work—then begging them—
         then buying them whiskey—begging again—finally sending their white
              wives up the dangerous trail etched into the steep sides
                    to buy baskets from Hopi wives and grandmothers
                           as a sign of treaty.

    When that didn’t work, the state workers called the Indians lazy,
          sent their sunhat-wearing wives back up to buy more baskets—
               katsinas too—then called the Hopis good-for-nothings,
                     before begging them back once more.

    We’ll try again in the morning, the foreman said.
         But the Indian workers never returned—
              The BIA’s and DOT’s calls to work went unanswered,
                    as the fevered Hopis stayed huddled inside.

    The small bones half-buried in the crevices of mesa—
         in the once-holy darkness of silent earth and always-night—
              smiled or sighed beneath the moonlight, while white women
                    in Airstream trailers wrote letters home

    praising their husbands’ patience, describing the lazy savages:
         such squalor in their stone and plaster homes—cobs of corn stacked
             floor to ceiling against crumbling walls—their devilish ceremonies
                   and the barbaric way they buried their babies,
                          oh, and those beautiful, beautiful baskets.

    -- Natalie Diaz
    "The Facts of Art"


    Listen to The After Show & The Justice Department on Netroots Radio. Join us on The Porch Tue & Fri at Black Kos, all are welcome!

    by justiceputnam on Mon Apr 28, 2014 at 09:32:20 PM PDT

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